


The Way of the Sun

by carmenta



Category: Lions of Al-Rassan - Kay
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmenta/pseuds/carmenta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two women wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way of the Sun

Miranda Belmonte d'Alveda wished for anger as she mended a ripped seam with untidy, impatient stitches. Such a generous escape it offered, full of breathtaking, cleansing fury. A storm in summer, fierce with the hammer of rain and the ring of thunder, and the clean smell of fresh air afterwards, all the tension washed away. Quick and easy, a way to release her temper and move on beyond what had provoked it.

This morning, anger was denied to her. How could she be angry at Rodrigo, show him her displeasure at his latest idiocy the way she usually did, when she could not be certain that he would come back this evening? She had never held back with him. Had never hidden frustration, disappointment. Fury. Just as she had always let him know that she loved him, even when he made her scream with exasperation. It was because of her love for him that she held back this day. No need to let him see the despair that was choking her. Not now, not when he needed to focus.

In and out the needle went. She briefly tried to make the stitching straight and neat, but she had never been good at dainty women's pursuits like needlework. Not that anyone would notice a crooked seam on a shirt only ever worn underneath chain mail.

She promised herself that when Rodrigo came back, she would make certain he never again even thought of something so foolish. When he came back. Not if. When. To consider the alternative was unthinkable and she refused to do so, with all the fierceness she could muster.

He would come back. He had to.

The queen had offered her a seat among the ladies-in-waiting for the day. A great honor, to observe this critical moment in the war in such company. There would be chilled water and dainty delicacies; only the best to tempt the queen and the young women under her patronage. Young women who had no understanding yet of what it meant to watch your husband ride off to war. They would think it romantic.

Miranda could only snort with derision at the thought. There was no romance in warfare, no matter how hard the ballads and legends tried to paint a different picture. Knights in shining armor did not wear all that steel to be gallant and dashing, they wore it as protection against enemy. And most of them did not care about the shine as long as the metal served its purpose.

Some of those girls would learn, just as she had learnt. They would go on and marry military men, or border lords, and they would find out just how quickly the glamour could wear off. But today they would hide their giggles behind scented silk sleeves and blush at the sight of the queen's guard in their dashing tabards and polished helmets. Miranda was in no mood for that. Neither was she in the mood for the sympathetic cooing she was guaranteed to receive.

The needle stuck in the thick fabric of a fold, and she had to push to get it through. One day she would make Rodrigo mend his own clothes; perhaps that might make him a little more careful. She should threaten him with a needle rather than an arrow next time, she thought, but her heart was not in it.

There might be no next time. The thought she had tried so hard to push away filled her mind with a vehemence that left her struggling for breath. He might not come back. He might die.

It was a possibility she had lived with during all her marriage. Rodrigo had always led a dangerous life, with the constant possibility of death. Enough of his men had not come back from campaigns, both in the service of the king and in exile. A soldier took risks; she had known that. But it had never been like this before. Never so deliberate.

Today, two men would ride onto a field while tens of thousands of men watched. And only one would walk away again.

She jammed the needle into the layers of fabric. Pushed. Pulled on the other side. In. Out. In.

She flinched when the sharp point went through the seam and into her flesh and pain flared up in her hand. Careless. Foolish. When she withdrew the needle, it left traces of red on the white linen. Hardly visible, and it would wash out easily. And yet she felt her throat constrict.

It hardly hurt, she thought angrily as she wrenched her eyes shut. No reason to be stupid. Not the moment to be stupid. Not now. Not over something so small.

What was she doing, anyway? Sit in her husband's tent like a proper wife, mending his clothes and minding his mess. So proper, so expected.

The shirt flew onto the bed, the needle still stuck in the folds of the seam.

Let someone else take care of it. Someone who did not mind sitting still. Someone who did not care about what happened elsewhere. Someone who had not seen the pain in Rodrigo's eyes this morning, someone who did not know that he might not live to see the sunset, someone who did not understand what it would cost him to win. Someone who could sit still and simply wait for news.

It was not going to be Miranda Belmonte.

***

Alvar insisted on accompanying her. For propriety, he claimed, and for her safety so nothing would happen to her on her observation post on the little hill. Miranda had chosen the place only for the vantage point it gave her; that it lay in the unclaimed territory between the two armies was none of her concerns. Undoubtedly Alvar had thought of the possible ramifications of the Jaloñan Constable's wife putting herself into such a position. It would account for the guards he had sent along. But he did not seem surprised at her insistence to leave the confinement of the camp; all he asked was for her to wait until he could find someone who might escort her back safely if he was called away. So calm and self-assured he was, a young man who had seen more than many others his age. Miranda, who remembered him as a boy clinging to his mother's skirts, was startled at the change. Then again, when he had been that boy, her sons had not even learned to walk. And look at them now.

Selfishly she wished for Fernan and Diego to be here. Two smaller versions of Rodrigo to stand with her on this day, for her to draw strength from. But they were up in the north, away with some of Rodrigo's men to run messages in their father's name. They would not bear witness to what happened today.

Miranda hoped that they would see it as the mercy she thought it to be. She would watch in their stead and pray that the letter she would send tonight would bear good news. Although, how could any news be good? The fates of Rodrigo and ibn Khairan, and subsequently anyone connected to them, were too tangled.

Sun and stars, she thought. And the moons caught between them.

Jehane bet Ishak had made her way to the hill soon after Miranda had arrived, a small, lone figure, her blue cloak billowing in the wind until she wrapped it more tightly around herself. She was riding a horse, albeit such a tame and unspirited one that Miranda felt it barely violated the law that forbade the Kindath such mounts. Practicalities before legalities, she assumed; mayhap the cloak's color had been chosen by habit rather than any need for obeisance. Certainly ibn Khairan's rank with the Asharite army was enough to allow one Kindath to wear whatever she chose to.

They watched each other for long moments, Jehane on her phlegmatic mare and Miranda on the highest point of the hill. Another duel to take place today, insignificant compared to what was yet to come.

Miranda held herself carefully still, unwilling to cede her position. It would be so easy to press her advantage - Alvar and the other men could be here within moments, they might seize the Kindath doctor, take her to the Jaloñan camp. Inform ibn Khairan, make him back down from the duel...

It was a treacherous line of thought to follow, and Miranda quenched it almost as soon as she became aware of where her mind was wandering. But the thought had been there, just for an instant, and it disquieted her. How could she even consider such actions when she owed this woman such a tremendous debt? Any jealousy Miranda had felt over Rodrigo's glowing reports of his newfound doctor had turned into sheer gratitude the moment Diego had opened his eyes again after that fateful night. That debt could never be repaid.

She had lost sight of Jehane after that night. Letters might serve both overt and covert purposes in warfare, and anything she could have written would have been intercepted. Besides, how did you put such gratitude into words? Miranda had chosen deeds instead - Jehane's parents had remained in the Jaloñan camp for a while, until it was safe again for them to leave. She had ensured that they lacked in nothing while they stayed, in thank for Izhak ben Yonannon's miracle and for his daughter's assistance in it. Sometimes, whenever he heard of ibn Khairan surfacing somewhere, Rodrigo had wondered aloud about Jehane, but he had not known anything definite either.

War interrupted lives.

With a certainty she did not quite feel, Miranda took a step forward, then another. On her horse, Jehane tilted her head to the side in surprise, then dismounted with the gracelessness of someone who had come to horsemanship late in life and who would never entirely trust in it. Again they watched each other, but the air was lighter now.

"What happens now?" Jehane asked. Miranda suddenly felt certain that she was not the only one to whom that dishonorable solution to today's dreaded confrontation had occurred.

"We wait," Miranda said.

Wait on this windy hill on a late summer day and look down at this world of men, where women were mere bystanders who might rage against the foolishness of males, but whose concerns were ultimately brushed aside.

"Will there ever be a time when it is not a curse to be born a woman?" Miranda asked. Herself, the woman beside her. The men guarding them. Jad. Even Ashar, should an answer come from there. "When we can do more than stand by and be extremely brave and watch them die?"

There was no answer. Not that she had expected one.

Down on the plain, two armed men were riding towards each other.


End file.
